


Strength In Numbers

by Siriusfanatic



Series: X-Men: Past, Present and Future [12]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Clones, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Past Sexual Assault, Threesome - M/M/M, Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 18:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8856802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusfanatic/pseuds/Siriusfanatic





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

                War was in his blood. Or so he had always believed. Without battle, he was useless, restless. Without carnage he was dissatisfied. Without victory, without dominance, without the undeniable, carnal proof that he was the strongest, the most viscous, the most dangerous…without that he had nothing. Bereft of all this he was weak. And weakness could not be tolerated.

                He had battled his way through decades of war and conflict. He had seen bloodshed at Gettysburg, he had witnessed horrors in Russia, Germany, Italy and Poland. He had clawed a bloody swath through the jungles of Vietnam. Wounds, ambushes, natural disasters, bombs…they could slow him for a while. They might even stop him, but only briefly. No grave dirt had ever held him long.

                But three days, locked down inside Nathaniel Essex’s training simulator…was nearly enough to make Creed long for a dirt nap.

                It didn’t stop. The onslaught of battle, the changing landscape and opponents, the intense conditions. They churned over and over, never with any discernable pattern. Some seem to go on for a day, others only a few minutes. But maybe days didn’t matter anymore. In here, time didn’t matter. In here, he was trapped, powerless to step away from the situation, powerless to take command. All he could do was fight until Essex deemed it time to finally let him rest.

                He wasn’t alone in this hell. Greycrow, aka Scalphunter, was also part of test that Essex had laid out before them. As his own two mutants with healing factors, Mr. Sinister decided to put their regenerative abilities to something of “stress test.”

                They made less than admirable teammates, neither truly interested in cooperating with the other. Their fighting strategies didn’t mesh well either. Scalphunter was fine with close-contact fighting styles, but his true skill was with weaponry, taking out large groups of opponents at once and then swooping in to finish off the survivors. Where was Victor was only ever for blunt, brute force. His teeth, his claws, his strength, his sheer ability to take blow after blow after blow without going down was his one and only tactic.

                And the simulator knew it. Essex knew it.

                Presently, the battle had taken on another familiar theme. Both men found themselves force into battle against the raging fury of Xavier’s X-Men. The scenario change had started abruptly—a mere two seconds before hand they had been fighting off SHIELD agents in the middle of a military compound, trapped within the close quarters of barren, confining cement corridors.

                Now they were in the middle of down-town, in the middle of the wreckage of abandoned cars and trucks with Cyclops, Angel and Pyslocke.

                The visor clad X-man in blue gave them an wide sweep with his optic blast, which decimated anything unfortunate enough to come into its path. Both Creed and Greycrow had to leap to safety, flatten themselves to pavement beside smoldering abandoned cars.

                John pushed himself into a crouching position, peeking over the hood and tried to take aim at Cyclops’ head, but was spotted. Another more concentrated blast burst forward, and John bellowed as his armored hand was reduced to melted steel and scorched flesh and bone.

                Victor could smell it and crinkled his nose. The man screamed in pain and fell aside, ripping at the still glowing metal parts to separate them from his skin. The healing process had already begun, and Creed looked away in disgust. Growing back limbs was never a pretty sight on his own body, but with other people it was even worse.

                Rather than wait to be BBQ’d by the boy scout in blue, Creed grabbed the car from underneath and with a loud, lion like roar sent it flipping towards the other Mutant. Cyclops was crushed under spiraling mass and Creed howled again, glad to be rid of one adversary.

                But more were ready to replace him. Above his head Angel swooped low, attempting to grab at him. Victor swiped at him with his claws when he got too close, ripping a wide gash across the golden haired man’s neck and chest. He grabbed one of his wings and with a viscous yank brought the man crashing to the ground. He stopped on the fragile bones of the other mutant’s flight appendage and listened to him scream before giving him a swift kick to the head that silenced him immediately.

                He started to turn but there was a sword through his gut. The woman was on him now, skilled, silent, and probably more deadly than the other two combined. Creed took the pain that filled up his insides and forced it outwards into his rage, trying to turn and slash at her. But she remained just out of his reach. She withdrew the blade and gave him a hard kick, sending him stumbling.

                Everything inside him burned as the wound began to close, flesh and muscle and organs knitting themselves back together. He had almost completely rebounded. But she hit him again, slashing him across the arm so deeply that it was nearly removed completely. A small inch of muscle kept it from falling off out right. He screamed at her, eyes wide and dilated, foaming at the mouth. She made to strike his other arm, but he caught her sword, though it sliced deep and painfully into his hand and twisted it sharply. The resulting motion broke her wrist and forced her to drop her weapon.

                The moment’s distraction was all the opening Creed needed; he lurched forward and slashed her throat.

                But the barrage wasn’t over.

                As Betsy Braddock fell to the ground, there came a sizzling, cracking sound whizzing through the air. Creed reacted just in time to yank his head back just as a magenta pink playing card whizzed past his face and exploded in a bright flash of heat and light.

                Creed felt his flesh burned and rendered raw by the blast and was knocked off his feet. More cards came towards him, forming a ring around him, exploding upon impact and peppering him with a hail of dirt, which pebbled his wounds and made it difficult for them to close.

                Victor shook his shaggy blonde head; blood and sweat dripping from it, trying to shake the dirt from his eyes. He caught the shape of John Greycrow moving in front of him, putting down a barrage of bullets that shielded him momentarily from the on-coming attack.

                He grunted, forcing himself to his feet, though his knees quaked with the effort. He was getting so tired, and each time his body sent another rush of regenerative fuel through him it burned like hell, as if the muscles and bones were growing tired of accepting it. Still, Victor pressed on.

                Scalphunter charged forward and he was swiftly right in line with him, ready to break through the X-Men’s second line of defense.

                The towering metal heavy-weight Colossus was in their path, deflecting all of John’s bullets and short-range missiles, proving an effective juggernaut for the pair that followed in close behind him, which were two particularly cruel additions…Gambit and Wolverine.

                It wasn’t the first time he’d fought either of them during this grueling beat-down that Essex had called training. Essex always seemed to know just how to time their appearance to spur Creed on just when it looked like he was losing motivation.

                And the bait worked of course.

                Creed let out another barking roar and vaulted over Scalphunter’s shoulders as the Comanche man struggled to put down Colossus, lunging straight for the remaining pair. He went for Logan first, plowing into him and feeling those bright claws tear through his flesh and bone. The pain seemed like more of an annoyance than a mortal injury. He set his own teeth and claws into his kin’s flesh with merciless abandon.

                Wolverine howled and raged, but gave as good as he got, even in simulation form. He eventually he was able to force Victor back, though he had gored the man’s throat into a nearly unrecognizable mess, leaving a clear opening for Gambit to attack.

                Victor felt the man’s metal staff crack across the back of his head, then shoulders, then stab him painfully in the kidneys. Creed howled and reached back, taking a blind swipe at the other figure, catching nothing but air.

                The big feral tore himself away from his bloodied counterpart and went bounding after Gambit, though he could hear John shouting at him and already sense Logan right on his heels. The Cajun was too fast, and Victor was stumbling and tired, pushing forward blindly.

                “Come ‘er you slippery little fuck! I’m gonna rip yer heart out and eat it in front of--!”

                Gambit of course didn’t reply to the bait, he just kept fighting, and it was all too easy for him to avoid Creed’s capture with another deft movement that sent Creed tripping in the dirt, only to turn and have his teeth kicked in by the man’s boots before Wolverine was on him again.

                John came barreling forward again, having diverted Colossus for the moment and managed to hurl Wolverine away, though it nearly cost him most of his left arm. The bloodied man sneered down at his so called partner, “You’re not focusing, the directive is—“

                “FUCK OFF!” Victor foamed, knocking past the man and lurching towards LeBeau again. This time his claws found a home in the Cajun’s ribs and brought him to his knees. He fell immediately into defense mode, but Creed ignored the tiny explosions that erupted from the man’s card filled hands, slashing him wide and attempting to rip open his rib cage.

                “It’s because of you I’m here! YOU DESERVE THIS!”

                One of John’s metal hands came around his throat then and squeezed hard enough to bring him to the brink of unconsciousness. “ENOUGH.”

                Creed gurgled, but reached back and set his claws in the man’s thigh, making him yelp and release his hold.

                “Don’t get in my way…” Victor warned. “In here or out there…or I’ll grind you into so many pieces not that even that half-assed healing factor of yours will matter…”

                The battle field around them flickered and stuttered, the simulation finally coming to an abrupt halt, leaving only the empty room once more.

                Scalphunter shoved Creed forward and shot him once for good measure and then got up with a limp, hand clamped around the wound on his leg that was still bleeding.

                Sabretooth got up with a grunt and started after him, then sunk to his knees again, feeling himself shake all over. The room was swimming, and he felt that hot intense urge to spit as his stomach churned and bile rose in the back of his throat. The bullet John had just put in him was still being pushed back through his muscles and skin, not quite having found its exit yet.

                “Fucker…you weak, soft fucker…”

                “Shut your mouth Creed or I’ll shoot you again.”

                “Both of you,” a new voice interrupted, silencing them both. They turned in direction of the sound, finding the otherwise invisible door of the simulator standing open and Mr. Sinister himself standing there at its threshold. “Silence.”

                The man was looking pressed and impeccably groomed as always, cutting a sleek, dark, menacing figure in his tailored black and red Victorian-esque suit, his gloved hands folded neatly in front of him as he stood looking down at them from the narrow landing that lead down from the opening to the floor below.

                He beckoned them both forward after a moment, his eyes falling on Creed, watching his struggle with mute interest. It wasn’t until both men were clear of the Simulation Room’s doors that he spoke at all, eyeing them with his usual cool, calculating gaze.

                “Overall, I’d say that you preformed…adequately. Given the extreme conditions you were placed under. But adequacy won’t save you on the real battlefield.” His eyes shifted from Greycrow to Creed and back again. “Sloppy work, both of you. Your planning, your cooperation were utterly miserable. This I expect from self-proclaimed ‘lone hunters’, but you are both men of extensive military experience…” he sighed deeply. “I’ve half a mind to shoot you both myself for that pitiful display.”

                His eyes moved to Creed. “Victor you surprise me, letting yourself lose focus. Did you learn absolutely _nothing_ from your time training with Gambit?”

                “Oh I learned plenty,” Sabretooth spat back. “I learned how you like to bait people…how you get off on it, you frustrated, warped-” Victor found his voice abruptly silenced and his lips sealed by the telepath’s powers. 

                Essex stepped a little closer, pushing Victor’s sweaty and bloody hair from his face and stroking a hand down his cheek.

                “You’re to be Lord Apocalypse’s horseman. His bringer of War, his general. It is a high honor and I expect you to start showing a little bit appreciation for the effort I’ve devoted to making sure that you are ready for him.”

                Creed sneered but could do nothing else as Essex looked him up and down with that same appraising, hungry look that he so often saw him bestow upon LeBeau. It was deeply disturbing to the feral to have it turned upon himself.

                “Apologizes, Master Essex.” He found the words being forced out of his mouth.

                Sinister smiled and patted his cheek. “Good boy.”

                Beside him John barely stifled a laugh and Victor silently vowed to maul him at his earliest convenience. But right now, he was simply too tired.

                “Scalphunter, I’ve left instructions with Arclight and Riptide for your next mission.”

                “Yes sir.”

                “I don’t want to hear from you until it is completed, is that clear? There should be ample time for you to do so while I’m away.”

                “Away?” Creed mumbled, his words his own once more, though they were dull and thick, pushing their way through his mouth like mud in his exhaustion. “You mean you’ve finally run out of blood to suck here? Need fresh meat?”

                Essex turned and with a wave of his finger beckoned Creed to follow. Victor had no choice but to obey, shuffling after the man on aching feet. It had been ages this since he had been worked to his sort of tiredness…he didn’t really know what to do with himself.

                As they moved down the corridor they were joined shortly by Dr. Hans McCoy, who presented Sinister with a strange containment device.

                “You should be able to locate any of the Phoenix’s residual energy source with the sensor I already gave you, but should you come across a biological product, be sure to use this. It will protect you from any cosmic radiation.”

                “Thank you, Hans,” Sinister noted. “I believe we’ve quite thought of everything.”

                Behind them, Creed raised an eyebrow. “Wait…what’s a Phoenix?”

                McCoy glanced back at him with that smug look of superior amusement. “A cosmic being, older than our solar system, and great many others as well. Some old legends call it the fire of creation, the spark of light and life from which spawned the universe. Once in a millennia or two it makes its way back to this dismal corner of the galaxy, either brining a new surge of life, or fiery extinction. Sometimes both at once. Apparently, it made a host of the telepath Jean Grey.”

                “Yes,” Sinister muttered, “it is my great regret that I did not learn of this creature’s presence sooner. Ms. Grey has been a subject of interest for some time…it is a waste that she died before I was able to extract her from Xavier’s clutches.”

                “So what’s the point then?” Creed muttered. “Sounds to me like you missed yer chance.”

                Essex turned to look at him more fully, “Don’t speak about things you don’t understand, Mr. Creed. It makes you sound more ignorant.”

                Creed snarled. “Grey’s dead. Your space monster probably bit the dust with her. Does that sum it up for ya?”

                “Dead does not mean gone.” Essex answered. “Even dead tissue can for a time, harbor a spark of life.”

                Creed slowed his step, realizing Sinister was meaning to take a step further down the mad scientist path and become a grave robber. “There is no rock bottom for you, is there? Every time I think one of you reaches it, I’ll be damned if the other one doesn’t come along with a fucking shovel…”

                McCoy’s hand was suddenly around his throat, throwing him hard into the wall, which cracked under the force. Victor wheezed, ribs broken, something ruptured inside him, most of the feeling gone from his legs. Hans dug his nails into his throat and drew blood.  “One of these days, Creed, I will shut that damn mouth of yours for good.”

                “Touchy touchy…” the other feral sputtered through bloody lips.

                Beside them, Sinister watched with little emotion, but Hans could tell that he was excited by the display, as he usually was aroused by any shows of brute violence and dominance.

                “Gentlemen,” the grey-skinned man purred then. “That’s enough. I’ve no more time for distractions.”

                Hans retracted his hand and let Creed slip to the floor, where Victor lay winded, waiting to recover. He moaned almost inaudibly with pain, the new injuries bringing on the familiar burn of his healing abilities, and compounding the exhaustion he already felt.

                Sinister paused to kneel beside him, stroking his hair lightly and lifting his chin. “Promise me you won’t get into any trouble while I’m away, my dear man. This errand shan’t keep me long. When I return, I expect to see a new Sabretooth. One that will be worthy of our lord and master. Do we understand each other?”

                Creed looked up at him, but lacked the energy to even utter one of his usual curses or insults. He just let his head slump into Sinister’s palm with a pained exhale of breath. Essex leaned over him with a smile and kissed his temple. He didn’t have to look up to know that Hans’s fur was bristling at the sight.

                He stood and straightened himself, glancing down the hall to where a couple of his worker clones were busy clearing out one of the old research rooms for storage. “You there,” Essex called, and all three immediately paused in their work and turned their attention towards him. Sinister eyed them and blinked twice at the smallest of the group. “16 wasn’t it?” he asked casually.

                The smaller, slightly younger looking clone moved forward.  “Sir. How can I be of assistance?”

                Sinister’s gaze slid towards Hans, “Wasn’t this the one you said was defective? I thought you had dealt with that.”

                “And so I did,” Dark Beast answered, “He’s been completely wiped—reeducated. There should be no further issues.”

                Sinister eyed him slowly. “Let us hope not. For your sake, doctor.”

                He glanced coldly at the worker, “Get Mr. Creed cleaned up and back to his enclosure. I don’t need him lying around, staining my floors with his blood.”

                “Of course, Dr. Essex.”

                He turned towards Sabretooth as the others departed, waiting until they had vanished around another corner of the corridor and disappeared into the lift beyond. Only once he knew they could not see or hear him, did 16, also known as Dorian, let his guard drop.

                He rolled Creed over, examining him nervously. “Victor! Mr. Creed! Please…please say something!”

                He was alarmed, startled by the blood and the slow rate at which the large man seemed to be recovering from his abuse. Victor, who was only half aware of his surroundings, looked up at him in confusion for a moment or two and then smiled. “Hey…Copy Cat…” he touched his face lightly and tried to pull him in closer, but his hand slipped and he slumped further, not quite unconscious but unable to focus.

                Dorian whimpered, “Victor…Victor, we must get you up. We’ve got to go back to the enclosure. Come on now, I’ll help you.”

                Creed groaned and let the man adjust him, slowly getting to his knees and pushing himself up, allowing Dorian to support some of his weight as the moved. The wounds had already sealed, his bones were mended, muscles reattached. He was whole but exhausted and his mind seemed to fizzle in and out, battered by the barrage of stress and telepathic abuse he’d suffered from Sinister.

                He gazed dimly at Dorian as they shuffled along, back towards the Sanctuary. “I thought you were…ya know…blank. Like he said.”

                Dorian let out a quiet, rueful little chuckle. “Yes, well…Dr. McCoy has certain appearances to keep up. Secrets to keep. It wouldn’t serve him to allow Sinister to know that he’s kept me intact for his…purposes.” He squeezed Victor’s arm lightly. “But nevermind that now. You look dreadful. What on earth have they been doing to you?”

                “Conditioning…” Creed mumbled. “Preparing for their war…for Apocalypse.”

                Something about the way he said the phantom man’s name made Dorian shudder.

                The feral looked at him again, and this time his eyes seemed a little clearer. “I didn’t think I’d be seein’ ya again. Where you been hidin’?”

                “Dr. McCoy has kept me quite busy. I am forbidden to enter your accustomed area of the compound.”

                “But here we are.”

                “Well yes,” Dorian grinned, “I could hardly protest a direct order from Dr. Essex, now could I?”

                Victor laughed softly. “You’ve got a mean streak in you. I like it.”

                By the time they reached the Sanctuary doors, Victor was walking fully under his own power. But his exhaustion, physical and mental were still quite evident. Everything seemed slow and blurred, his thoughts kept short circuiting in a way, undercut by Sinister’s conditioning.

                Dorian lead him towards the enclosure, his eyes casting about for another familiar figure, who was watching them silently from the darkness beneath the heavy pine boughs.

                “Are you sure you’re alright?” Dorian asked, once they had bi-passed the security wall, allowing them to step freely inside the forested domain. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?”

                Creed didn’t answer, he simply stood there, staring off blankly in the distance as if he couldn’t recall where he was, or how he had come to be there. Dorian nervously touched his arm. “Victor?”

                Sabretooth jerked his arm away with a fierce snarl, baring his fangs and claws, as if suddenly startled by Dorian's presence. The smaller man jumped with surprise and started to back away, as the feral, eyes wide and black, continued to loom over him, ready to pounce. “Who are you!? What do you want!?”

                “Victor! Victor it’s me!”

                Victor just bellowed at him like mountain lion and raised a clawed hand as if to strike. But the blow didn’t fall. Something slithered down from the branches above them and fell with a scream on Creed’s back, dragging him down.

                “KITTY! STOP IT!”

                Dorian stared, transfixed as the two figures fell to the dirt and rolled, snarling and hissing at each other like dogs in a brawl. The nimbler figure, long and tan with shoulder-length red-brown hair was flipped over Creed’s head and sent tumbling, only to regain himself effortless, glaring back at the larger Mutant with narrowed red and black eyes. “I said stop it! You’re acting---“ he jumped at Creed, and knocked him to the ground, sitting on his chest and pinning his arms above his head. Victor tried to throw him off, but the other man met his resistance by simply headbutting him—hard—back to the ground. “—CRAZY!”

                Victor flopped back, heaving for air, but finally relenting. Stars were winking in front of his eyes, and felt small, hot droplets of blood fall to his skin, making him look up only to find Timmy sitting on top of him, panting and bruised, blood dripping from his nose.

                “Better now?”

                Victor stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of the scene and then focused on the figure standing behind them, looking small and shocked.  He sunk back into the earth with a long, boneless groan.

                “Goddammit…”

                Timmy wiped the blood from his nose and leaned over to kiss his Alpha, his lover, and nuzzle him. “No more fighting, Victor. You’re home now. I’ve got you.”

                He looked back at Dorian and smiled nervously, “Hey Prissy Kitty…I see you ain’t run off yet. Must have missed us.”

                Dorian didn’t know what to say. He just nodded mutely, and Timmy did so in reply, nuzzling his head under Victor’s chin and hugging him tight.

                They stayed that way in silence for a time, Timmy waiting until Creed had dropped off into a heavy, fitful sleep before daring to stir. The other clone stood by the entrance, observing it all in silence with a wistful gaze. He had missed this place, primitive though it was. He had missed Victor and Timmy, the only other creatures within the confines of the compound he could think of as something other than another product Dr. Essex’s whims.

                Timmy crawled away from Creed and edged his way towards the newcomer, but didn’t speak until he was sure that his Alpha would not be disturbed by them. Then he turned to look more fully at Dorian. It seemed as though he needed to convince himself that the other was real; the first thing he did was to touch him, first on the forearm, pawing at the fabric of his suit, and then on the face.

                Dorian blinked and flushed; any sort of intimate, gentle contact always came as a shock to him. He nuzzled into Timmy’s palm absently, immediately remembering the last time they had been together. He hadn’t realized how starved for affection he was, even if he had thought about both Timmy and Victor every day since his long isolation.

                Timmy drew in closer, smelling him, nuzzling him. It was less intimidating than when Creed would inspect him in such a manner, Timmy wasn’t nearly as bulky or physically oppressive as Sabretooth could be in close quarters when you weren’t sure what to expect. But his long, wiry frame made it no less awkward, as he wrapped his long tan arms around Dorian’s pale shoulders in drew him in tight.

                The smaller man sunk into that embrace in spite of his normal reserve. He needed it, he needed to touch and feel the other man in front of him, to have solid proof of what had come before, the bond they had created, wasn’t imagined. As the days had slid into weeks, the isolation had made him doubt. But here he felt grounded again, sure of his own existence and of the affection he shared for the men beside him.

                “Didn’t think you’d come back. Not after what happened. Thought you didn’t want us anymore.”

                Hearing Timmy say this broke Dorian’s heart and he gripped the other tighter reflexively. “An impossibility, I assure you my dear dear man…” he chuckled. He pulled away reluctantly, studying the other man’s face, which was still smeared with dried blood. Dorian pulled out a handkerchief from his vest pocket and attempted to clean the mess, though Timmy squirmed under his hands.

                “How are you faring?” the dark haired clone asked, “You seem much stronger than before.”

                The other nodded, “Have to be. Things to be afraid of in here now…new things Sinister made. Things that wander around at night. The walls come down now when the lights go out. When it gets dark…” He looked back over his shoulder at Victor. “They came and took Victor away 3 days ago. Have to take care of myself.”

                Dorian seemed disturbed by the explanation. Clearly while he had been biding his time elsewhere, things for the rest of the compound had taken an unsavory turn. He wondered what was behind the sudden escalation, especially since it didn’t seem particularly like Sinister to pit his creations against each other, or leave them to their own ends. This seemed much more calculated and cruel. Something that reminded him of another Doctor with even less of a moral center.

                “I’m glad you’re safe, Timothy.” He offered, awkwardly reaching to touch the man’s naked shoulder, then his face lightly as Timmy had done to him. The other smiled, and Dorian almost winced at how warm it was. He stood then, dusting off his suit. Timmy watched him anxiously. “I must return to my duties. I’ve been too long here already.”

                “You’re leaving?”

                “I-I’m afraid I must. For now.”

                Timmy scrambled up and caught his arm, pulling him back, much to Dorian’s surprise. “No.”

                “Timmy--!”

                “Don’t leave. You can’t leave…please don’t leave.”

                “I have to Timothy. If I don’t, someone will come looking.” He looked nervously past him towards Creed, who was still slumped in an exhausted sprawl on the floor. “Creed can’t fight them now. And on your own, it might not be enough.”

                Timmy faltered and let his grip slide from Grey’s arm. He let himself drop back against the wall of cave and slid down into a hunched ball, anxious and withdrawn. “You say you will come back for us. But you won’t. Can feel it…”

                “Timothy.”

                The other clone glanced up at him, surprised by the stern tone that replied. Dorian knelt beside him and kissed him lightly. “This is only for now. Not forever. I will come back. You do believe me, don’t you?”

                The redhead hesitated for a moment, not answering, then nodded slowly. Dorian kissed him again, feeling emboldened by doing so. He’d become so numb over the last few weeks, slipping back into survival mode, forcing himself not to think or dwell on the emptiness he felt without this strange connection he had made.  But now it was all there in front of him, raw and exposed.

                Dorian stood again and made to exit the cave, casting a last lingering look back at Creed before doing so. Timmy watched him as he left, and even as he climbed the hill and made his way back out into the neat paths and confined environments that populated the domed room, he could still feel those red and black eyes watching him beneath the shadows of the trees.

                It took a great deal of will power to propel himself forward when all he wanted to do was turn back. The rawness of the meeting was making his blood pulse more quickly, making it rush in his ears and flush his cheeks. His hands trembled ever so slightly and there was anxiety in his steps. But he kept moving, head down, eyes forward, his expression mute and unreadable. Blank. Like the others.

                He did notice as he walked that the place was indeed looking more wild, over-grown…ill managed. He guessed that this was the result of Hans allowing the creatures, mutant and monster alike, to roam freely at night, unrestricted. There was some dark stain on the floor near the front doors that Dorian wasn’t even going to guess at, as well as signs of struggle—broken tree branches, scattered leaves and sprinkles of dirt near the environment that housed the Toad clones.

                In inspecting this, he also noticed something else new. Claw marks, a multitude of them, ripped across the reinforced walls of the sanctuary. Dorian felt a deep sort of uneasiness at this, but his attention as drawn away as he made to step through the door—only to be greeted by an even more unsavory and unsettling sight.

                It would seem that Dr. McCoy had followed him there, and that he had just arrived, for the look that he fixed upon Dorian was one of acute frustration and ire. For a breath or more, the two stared at each other in silence, as if both were surprised to have come face to face. Then McCoy reached out with a faint snarl and seized Dorian by the front of his coat, yanking him through the door.

                Dorian’s feet barely made contact with the tile floor as McCoy dragged him away from the door, sending him stumbling back towards the elevator. “I _warned_ you about coming here,” he growled. “Who do you think you are, disobeying an order from me? Has it slipped your tiny mind that with the snap of my fingers I could have you dissected, and your remains bottled up into tidy little jars?”

                The smaller, dark haired creature before him trembled, knowing the threat could indeed come true anytime Hans wished. He was not a man of mercy, and forgiveness was not a word he was familiar with. Dorian had crossed the line with him before, earned his ire twice over now.

                And yet he was still alive.

                With a faint, shivering jolt, this realization dawned upon the clone, and though his skin quivered and his ribs ached and constricted with tension, he looked on calmly at the dark, ominous creature before him and asked simply; “Then what are you waiting for?”

McCoy’s golden eyes widened and his ears twitched, as if he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.  His clawed hand swiped again and drew Dorian closer, shaking him slightly. “What was that?”

He resisted the urge to cry out in fear. Instead he remained mute, looking boldly up into the other man’s cat-like eyes. Hans’s lip curled as he stared him down, smelling fear rippling off the smaller man, mixing with the other smells. The scent of Creed and that reject S-13. His blood boiled.

“I warned you about going near them…I warned you…they can’t protect you, not from me. They are nothing to you.”

“Then what does it matter?” Dorian asked, again with the same strange assuredness in his voice. He put his hand over McCoy’s and wrenched his clothing free. “What does it matter then, dear Doctor, whether I am in their company or not? If you truly wanted to destroy me…I imagine you would have done so some time ago.”

“How dare you--!”

“But I do dare, _sir._ It may be madness but I do. Kill me if you like. Kill me if I am indeed as insignificant as you proclaim.”

                Hans bared his teeth, furious, but didn’t lunge, didn’t pounce. Dorian spoke again before that could change; “You don’t want to kill me. Hurt me, oh yes. You like hurting people. And you have so many victims at your disposal…but I haven’t failed to notice how you watch me, Doctor. I haven’t ignored a single glance from you, not even from a distance. But you haven’t acted on your urges. Why is that?”

                “Quiet—“

                “No, sir. No, sir not until you answer my question. You—you can only threaten a man so much before the idea of death loses some of its potency, you see. So I ask you again; why haven’t you done it already? Why are you watching me, why do you want to keep me from Creed so very badly?”

                Slowly, Hans straightened himself. He squared his jaw and adjusted the dingy white jacket that hung from his broad shoulders. “Not as timid as you look. Interesting.” He folded his hands behind his back and began to pace, though in actuality he was circling the smaller man like a shark, even as he attempted to back up towards the elevator shaft.

                “I’ve noted your stunning resilience since the incident with Sabretooth. Not many people can say they have survived such an encounter with a feral mutant and walked away with all their parts intact. Much less continue to function as if no harm was done…” his eyes narrowed. “Something transpired between you two in that room. Some deal was struck. I may not be a telepath, my dear Dorian, but I can _smell_ treachery from a mile away. And you and Creed are _rank_ with it.”

                “And what do you believe we would conspire to?” Dorian fumbled.

                “I believe you think that oaf and his rabid lackey will somehow protect you. But I’m not sure if you are that naïve. Or perhaps, just that desperate.” He edged in closer. “He may have spared you in that moment; blinded by lust. But believing that he will spare you again is suicidal stupidity. Creed cares for no one. He is an animal, remove that stubborn sense of will he has and he’s nothing but a guard dog, chomping at the bit.”

                He lunged forward then, pinning Dorian against the elevator doors. “He can’t save you. Not from me. You’re mine.”

                Dorian felt cold. He knew Hans could smell the fear on him. But he refused to give in, he refused to cower. Not this time. “Yes,” he replied. “And how, exactly, does Dr. Essex feel about that?”

                Hans blinked slowly, but Dorian didn’t flinch or look away. He placed a hand upon the larger man’s chest and slowly pushed him back, allowing himself more air, more space. “I doubt—no, actually, I am _certain_ that he would be more than a little unhappy with your current obsession. The Doctor is not a man who likes competitors…oddly enough, he’s quite insecure. And should he discover that his closest confidant, his partner in all things…has had his head turned by a far lesser, lowly synthetic substitute…well…how do you think would take it?”

                Hans said nothing but the pupils of his eyes had narrowed into little black slits and a snarling smile appeared on his lips. “Are you threatening me?”

                “A threat implies that I might be bluffing, sir.” Dorian answered. “Surely if Sinister were to discover that you had been lusting after me, taking out your sexual frustrations upon me, wasting your time spying and _lusting_ after a younger version of himself…well I doubt he would hesitate to have me euthanized. But before he did, I would make sure that he learned every last detail about you.”

                “What do you know?”

                “I’ve spent months bent over your work tables, cleaning your laboratories, sorting your files, Doctor. There isn’t much I _don’t_ know.” He tapped his finger along side his head. “For instance, that you have a cybernetic device implanted your brain, which filters your brain waves. Protecting your thoughts from Sinister’s telepathy.”

                Hans went stiff. “You clever little bastard…”

                “Your journals provided very interesting details, sir.”

                “And what makes you think he’ll believe a word you say?”

                “I don’t have anything to filter my thoughts, Dr. McCoy. I’m an open book.”  He smiled, though his knees shook and his stomach felt sour and his back was drenched in cold sweat.

                After a long moment, in which McCoy seemed to be considering whether to gut him or not, he spoke again; “What is the price of your complacency, dear Dorian?”

                “You keep your distance and Sinister never finds out what you’ve done. Let Creed and S-13 be…and I’ll forget about your journals.”

                Dark Beast grinned, “It’s Nathaniel’s wish that Sabretooth join the ranks of Apocalypse’s horseman. Sorry, precious. You’ve nothing to bargain with there.” He gave the smaller man a sudden vicious swipe of his claws, which raked down his chest, ripping open his jacket, vest and shirt, leaving shallow but bloody wounds.

                Dorian yelped in pain and fell back against the door of the elevator, arms wrapped around himself, gasping. Hans leaned in and licked his cheek, holding his chin in his hand. “You’re becoming a particularly wicked little creature, Mr. Grey…I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you more. But don’t ever threaten me again. Or you’ll see exactly how much of a beast I can be.”

                Dorian waited, holding his breath, flinching as he waited to feel claws and teeth. But McCoy relented, and much to his surprise, took his leave of him without another word, pushing the button upon the lift door and stepping inside, leaving Dorian standing there in confused silence.

                McCoy smiled stiffly at him as the doors closed. The pale man quivered lightly as the adrenaline that had unleashed itself through his veins began to calm, leaving him feeling cold and sluggish. The scratches upon his chest continued to seep and smear blood upon his clothes, and they stung when he touched them absently, but he only vaguely noticed. It wasn’t like McCoy to leave things this way, not when he appeared to have the obvious advantage. Which meant only one thing. Dorian had actually spooked him. He really did have something to fear from Essex finding out about the device in his brain…and other secrets as well.

                He didn’t exactly have the upper hand in the matter. But for once the playing field was even. And he knew he had to take full advantage of it, before the tables could turn again, as they almost assuredly would.

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

                McCoy returned to his own den—his personal laboratory and study, which was kept housed in the lower floors of the tower behind heavily locked and coded doors, where access was granted to only a select few.  And that list was growing steadily shorter.

                The interdimensional mutant was in a foul temper, which was somewhat unusual for him. Hans wasn’t much for brooding, unlike his partner Nathaniel Essex, who had made an art of it. He was a man of contemplation; but also impulse.

                Absently he licked the lingering bit of blood on his claws from his playful little swipe at his former subservient assistant, settling himself at his desk as he looked over his vast, chaotic heap of schematics, journal notes, experiment logs and various odds and ends.

                The clone was becoming a problem. A liability. Logically there was only one sensible course of action for such things—get rid of the problem. And if Dorian had been any other clone, it would have been done and over with already.  But something about this particular creation made him hesitate, and he knew, begrudgingly, that it was something beyond just scientific curiosity.

                He frowned deeply, letting his claws click-clack as they drummed over the surface of the table, illuminated by the bright, harsh light of the table lamp beside him, casting the rest of the room in pale blue haze of monitors and glowing tubes filled with living samples of plants, mammals, and creatures not yet categorized between outlines of thick shadow.

                McCoy thought back on his own world. There, things were different. Very different. It mirrored the world he saw here; but covered in a death shroud of ruin and cataclysm. There wasn’t much left of the world that Apocalypse had created. He had made room for the Mutants race, yes, but he gave no thought to what they would rule over, with the human race all but eradicated and the world they built leveled to dirt.  What did such things matter to a creature like Apocalypse, who truly only sought to gain power and be worshiped? Small mindedness, McCoy thought. Possibly one of the worst cases of tunnel vision he’d ever had to endure.

                This time it had to be different. This time, he could control the variables. He could create the best possible outcome. And he had begun to feel that Dorian was part of that goal. Something about his strange evolution had captivated McCoy. Oh if only he had Nathaniel’s capabilities…

                He paused then, a new thought entering his mind. The gloominess was gone in an instant and he turned, alert and eager to his journals and began to feverishly scribble across the page. After another moment, he stood and made his way towards a cabinet across from his desk, filled with old ledgers, tools and machinery, manuals and other odds and ends tucked away in boxes. After a fleeting moment he came up with what he’d been searching for—a newer addition to his trove. A small black book filled with notes, dated just earlier that year, during which he had primarily been working on various studies of the mutant Gambit.

                Hans flipped through pages of diagrams and notes, equations and musings on the matter. LeBeau had been an interesting test subject, with powers that were difficult to define and even more difficult to replicate. He had constant reminders of this fact whenever he entered the Sanctuary and had to set his eyes upon the miscreant S-13, or any of his even more half-witted peers in their own clone enclosure.

                Remy’s kinetic abilities were easy enough to imitate, but didn’t hold much interest to him. It was the empathic “Charm” ability that had interested both he and Essex the most. Hans had been able to confirm early on that it wasn’t chemical based the way his own pheromone manipulation was. Rather, it was a sort of hypnotic lure, a psychic link that caught others attentions, dulled their inhibitions and apprehensions and let Gambit tap into their emotions, where he could manipulate them to his will.

                To his dismay, Hans hadn’t yet acquired the knowledge to replicate psychic or empathic abilities. But he _could_ create something of a similar affect…

                He hummed to himself, smirking as he flipped through the pages with renewed interest and settled down in his chair again. He had much planning to do.

 

 

***

 

                Keeping a low profile, despite the way he naturally stood apart from the rest of his replicated peers, was one of Dorian’s talents. It was easy for him to make himself unseen if he wished, and he remained alert at all times to potential threats, whether they came from Essex himself or one of the roving band of Marauders who served him.

                Today he was taking extra care to be invisible. After his confrontation with McCoy the day before, he expected some sort of retaliation from the creature. This usually meant physical assault in one form or another. McCoy enjoyed knocking him around, proving over and over again how physically and mentally superior he was to Dorian’s much weaker form.

                He kept his head down as he worked, avoiding any areas where he knew the doctor might be working. It was easy to find excuses to avoid his usual haunts.

                As he worked—this time cataloging dusty old tomes that belonged to Essex—his mind wandered back to the Sanctuary; back to Timmy and Victor. Anxiety plucked at him, making him chew his lower lip. He wondered if Victor had recovered yet from his grueling training, or if he was still lying prone and dazed inside the cave with Timmy fretting over him, never sure which version of Creed would surface when the feral was awake and aware.

                He wanted to go them, to see if he could provide assistance or consolation of any sort…not to mention, there and only there, did Hans seem to hesitate to track him. He sensed that Sinister had already warned his colleague about interfering too much with his specimens. Or, perhaps, despite all of McCoy’s claims of being Victor’s better…the other Mutant was actually wary of what Creed could do if pushed too far.

                Dorian needed to believe that it was the later. He needed to believe that Victor could and would protect him; so long as he proved himself worthy of the fight.

                He reached down to the cart below him for another book, when he heard a faint rush of air, followed by a sharp prick which struck him in the neck. Dorian yelped and clutched at the spot, finding a small pin there. He pulled it from his skin, staring at it for a moment before a thick wave of nausea and dizziness overcame him. He felt himself going down before he could do anything to stop it.

                His body hit the rug below with a thud and the book fluttered and toppled over from his hand. Dark Beast emerged a moment later, approaching the body without pause. He scooped the unconscious figure up in one of his large arms, and turned blithely back the way he had come. The other workers, paid him little more than a curious passing glance as he swept past them.

                All of them knew better than to question Dark Beast’s methods. It was their experience that when the doctor took one of them away, they should not expect to see the person again. And if they did, whatever tortures or mutilations they had suffered were never acknowledged or spoken of. That was the way of things.

 

**

 

                McCoy slunk back into his lab with the same care and purpose as a thief slipping into a safe house after a heist, and with the same malicious delight for his crime. Nathaniel was still away; he could work uninterrupted, at his leisure. Which was what he required for this particular experiment.

                He laid Dorian out on the available exam table, strapping down his arms and legs should the tranquilizer wear off sooner than expected. Though he doubted it; he’d given the man enough to keep him under for hours.

                Looking at him lying there, helpless and subdued was a tempting sight, but he couldn’t let himself be distracted by such carnal urges at the moment.  His logical, scientific mind needed to conquer his animal needs.

                He looked towards his work table, where his tools were still waiting as he had left them; sterilized and ready to proceed. He checked his subject’s vitals, took several samples from him, including blood, tissue and hair. He checked for signs of illness or infection; after all, there were still open cuts upon the smaller man’s chest from their little skirmish yesterday. But everything checked out. Dorian was as healthy as could be expected.

                Satisfied he was working with a clean slate, he took up the hypodermic needle that was filled with the odd, faintly green colored solution and injected it into his inert subject, emptying the contents slowly and steadily into his bloodstream.

                The clone’s body broke out in a cold sweat shortly after and his skin flushed and McCoy noted a spike in his blood pressure and heart rate. But he didn’t move, or otherwise show any signs of distress.

                McCoy watched it all with hellish glee in his gold eyes, memorizing every little detail, eager to see if Dorian’s body would accept or reject the mutagen. His cat-like ears gave a sudden twitch then as he sensed a heavy footstep outside his lab door, and realized to his dismay that he had neglected to lock it.

                His head jerked to the side as a new presence appeared in the doorway; one that was surprisingly unanticipated. John Greycrow stood there, his scowling gaze diverted from the twitching man on the table to the mad scientist looming over him, needle still in hand.

                “Get OUT—“ Hans snarled, but John didn’t flinch. Rather, the other man stepped more fully into the room and closed the door behind him. He fixed Dark Beast with a suspicious glance. “Spare me the theatrics, hairball.” He muttered. “I’ve got no interest in being a whistle-blower to your little projects. And you don’t really want to waste time trying to incapacitate me. Not when I could destroy all your little toys with a flick of my fingers.”

                Hans paused, though the fur on the back of his neck was still bristled and standing on end. “To what do I owe this intrusion?” he muttered at length, slowly returning his attentions to his subject.

                “Curiosity, I suppose.” Scalphunter replied. “I was due for another session with Sabretooth. When that didn’t happen, I figured you had something to do with it. But I see you’ve got your own distractions.”

                “If you want Creed, I’m sure he’s holed up in his den somewhere. Fetch him yourself.”

                “Not the point I’m trying to make.”

                Hans timed Dorian’s pulse, noting that it was slowing, becoming steady once again. There didn’t seem to be any further signs of rejection, though the mutation itself, if successful, would take more time.

                “I can’t read minds, but from the state of things, I’ve started to figure that you’re not quite as _committed_ to Essex’s dream of a total Mutant take over.”

                Hans’ features remained passive, but he raised one of his brows slightly. “What would make you imagine that? A world mastered by our own kind would be a utopia, something you’ve only fantasied about. It’s as much my dream as it is any of us who have suffered under the yoke of Human oppression.”

                John folded his arms and chuckled a little to himself. “Yeah, you talk a good game McCoy. But the only thing you’re really interested in is well…” he glanced around the room. “This. Right here. Your little lab and oh…those _things_ you’ve been cooking up in the bunker below.”

                Hans stilled and finally turned to give John Greycrow his full attention. His lip curled with an annoyed snear and he removed the glasses perched upon his nose, the pupil of his eye turning into a cat-like slit as he glared at him. “You _have_ been busy.”

                “What can I say? I can only play cards with Scrambler and Harpoon so many times before boredom gets the best of me.”

                “Yes well, boredom is a blight suffered only by a _dull_ mind. What your referring to is a personal project of mine; as is what you see before you here. Nathaniel knows I have my own research to conduct and he doesn’t begrudge me that. Just as I do not begrudge him his little endeavors. A mutual partnership—“

                “Shut up,” John rolled his eyes. “You lying sack of fleas.” He turned his attention towards Hans’ cabinet, and with a flick of his finger the contents inside began to move and shuffle, the tools gravitating towards Scalphunter’s hand. He caught them easily and looked them over, “You and I both know that if Essex ever realizes what you’re really up to, that you’re pulling strings behind his back…you’re as good as fur rug in front of his fireplace. So here’s my offer, McCoy. You convince that old vampire to let us out of this house of horrors, and I stay quiet about your projects.”

                “Abandoning your post, Greycrow? Where in the world would you go? Everyone out there knows it was you and your teammates who slaughtered those poor, defenseless mutants in the sewers.”

                “Not abandoning ship,” John replied. “Just looking for a little shore leave is all.”

                Hans laughed lightly. “You make a compelling argument. I do suppose you’re not being put to much use here are you? Not when you could be up there, gathering me test subjects like before…” he finally turned away from Dorian to look at the man more fully. “Fine. I’ll speak with him. But you must do something for me first.”

                John let the tools return to their place on the shelves. “And what’s that?”

                “S-13, the failed LeBeau clone. Kill him. However you like, it doesn’t matter to me. I would prefer the remains if you can spare them.”

                Greycrow’s face hardened for a moment, but he nodded slowly, standing up. “Done.”

 

**

                Dorian regained consciousness with a queasy feeling in his stomach. He sat up, confused to find himself lying on the floor next to the overturned cart of books in the library. He looked around anxiously, expecting to be pounced on in his moment of vulnerability. But no one was around—not even the other workers. He was alone.

                Groaning he righted himself, feeling sore. He tried to recall what had happened, but it was blank. The last thing he recalled was the same semi-sick, lightheadedness that he was currently experiencing. But the feeling was already fading. He patted himself down worriedly, wondering what could have happened to him while he was indisposed. But he seemed whole, unmolested. The only ache came from his back and his head where he had fallen.

                He sat there a moment, silent, pondering. Then he stood, abandoning his work and made his way resolutely towards the Sanctuary.

                The sky above the glass dome told him that night was falling; he’d been out longer than he guessed. His pace quickened as he came to the usual place along the path and found himself met with the security shield that enclosed the environment beyond. Dorian knew the code of course, and crossed the barrier quickly, allowing it to seal behind him.

                It was still strange to feel grass under his feet, and feel fresh air that was being filtered in from above. At times it burned his lungs with the crispness of it, and the smell of the pines and other growing things tickled his nose in awkward ways.

                He made his way down the inclined hill towards the den where Victor and Timmy hid themselves, knowing here they weren’t watched by any of McCoy’s all-seeing cameras. It was only once he reached the foot of the hill, standing a few feet from the mouth of the cave that he finally stopped to think about what he was about to do.

                It made him shiver. He didn’t know if he dared. It was a crime against his creators, a rebellion from which there was no turning back. He exhaled, more loudly than he meant to and his breath swirled in a faint fog in front of him. There was a chill in the air tonight.

                Something stirred from within the darkness of the cave, and Creed’s shadowed face appeared near the entrance. His eyes were like a lion’s, yellow and leering, almost unblinking as he observed the man before him.

                “Thought I smelled company,” Sabretooth rumbled. “What do I owe the occasion, Copy-Cat?”

                Dorian gulped faintly.  “Mr. Creed…”

                “Enough with that.”

                Sabretooth moved a bit further into the dimming light, drawing himself up to full height as he looked down on Dorian, dwarfing him in comparison. The clone shivered again and licked his lips. He wasn’t sure what this sudden thrill of fear was that gripped him, standing in Victor’s presence. But it was obvious that the feral could smell it on him.

                Victor reached out with one of his large, clawed hands and brushed it lightly along Dorian’s cheek, “What’s got yer fur up?”

                Dorian looked up at him, and Victor knew that something had changed. “Ye look like a man that’s got something on his chest, kitten…”

                “I want to help you.”

                “Ye already done that, more than once. You want a gold star or somethin’?”

                Timmy appeared now behind Creed, looking slightly bleary eyed and docile, as if he had just been woken. But his gaze sharpened when he set his eyes on Dorian, and immediately supposed his reason for arriving.

                “What I mean is,” Dorian stammered slightly, trying to force himself to remain collected, and calm but his stomach kept clenching and his palms were sweating. The way Victor was looking at him was both intimidating and yet…

                Dorian’s mind flashed back to that night, trapped in the room, with Creed all over him, hands and teeth, tongue and lips everywhere, making him twist and groan.

                He steadied himself and looked him in the eye and Creed blinked at the intensity he saw there. “What I mean is, I want to be of service to you. Only to you…to your pack.” He glanced quickly at Timmy, as if looking for assurance. The red-haired man behind him nodded eagerly, stepping up closer behind Creed and putting a hand on his arm, and the other on the small of his back.

                Creed said nothing. He stood, looking down at the smaller, frail being before him; appraising, considering. He felt Timmy squeeze his arm lightly from behind, and gently shook him off. Without a word he continued, moving around Dorian in a close circle, looking him up and down.

                Dorian’s nervous gaze darted to Timmy as Creed moved to stand behind him, his breath on his neck, claws dancing lightly on the shoulder of his jacket. Timmy remained still, looking tense but not anxious. It was clear he would not make a move until Victor did.

                Dorian realized he had invoked something with his request; something older and deeper than anything he was accustomed to. A place among feral’s was not some empty title to be tossed about and bartered for. Place in the pack was something that had to be earned, by cunning, strength, blood and sweat.

                For a moment he wondered if he hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

                Victor’s lips were at his ear as he bent over the smaller man, pulling him lightly back against him. “Do ya know what yer asking?”

                “Y-yes.”

                His hand tightened on his shoulder. “Are ya sure?” He moved back then and Dorian turned hastily to look him in the eye again, trembling but resolute. He couldn’t show weakness now; that much he realized. Any sign of wavering would lead to rejection.

                “I can help you.”

                “How?”

                “My position. I have access to places, to resources that you would otherwise be barred from.”

                “So what?” Victor answered, and Dorian stiffened, as did Timmy. “That’s nothing I couldn’t get out of any of the little worker bees if I press the right buttons. Hell, it’s nothing I couldn’t get one of those slack-jawed morons I used to work with to do for me.”

                “I can go unnoticed if I wish.”

                “McCoy never seems to have any trouble sniffing you out.”

                It seemed harsh, but Dorian didn’t give in. This was a test. He looked at Creed more firmly this time, a sly twinkle in his eye.

                “Yes. Dr. McCoy. I might appear as a plaything to him…but he’s been careless. And I haven’t. I’ve seen things; I’ve learned things. I know his weaknesses now.”

                Victor didn’t retort, still he continued to look down at the man. “And if you’re caught?”

                “What?”

                “What yer purposing is a deadly position. I’ve played it before…let’s just say it’s a good thing I have a healing factor.” He cooed. “But you, sweetheart…you don’t got that. Do ya? You get caught…McCoy or Sinister suspect what yer doing…who’s side you’re really on? Game over. What do you do?”

                Creed watched him more closely than before, hearing the pounding of the smaller man’s heart inside his ribcage, fluttering like a bird trying to escape. His claws stretched faintly at his sides, and he sensed Timmy moving nervously behind him, but he waved him back.

                “What do you do?”

                Dorian stared back at him. “Death before betrayal.”

                It was Victor then, who breathed a quiet little sigh of relief. He leaned in and kissed Dorian hard, one of his fangs scraping his lower lip and drawing a faint hint of blood, lick Creed licked away. “Good answer.”

                The dark-haired man nodded, though he was too shaken to speak. Victor combed his hand through his slick hair and nuzzled him, his cold cruel façade receding in a more familiar playful sort of wickedness.

                “Come ‘er,”

                Only with Victor’s arms fully enclosed around him did Dorian finally allow himself a full, deep breath. He clutched Creed harder than he meant to, but the feral didn’t seem to mind. He lifted him easily and moved back into the mouth of the cave, and Timmy followed eagerly.

                It took a moment to adjust to the darkness, but he was glad for it. It folded them in like a shroud, hiding them all from the greater evils that lay just outside. In here everything was warm and cloistered and secretive, and Dorian felt a little thrill go through him at thought. Truly, part of him delighted in this subterfuge.

                Timmy moved in now, and he felt the other clone’s long, lean arms curl around him even as Victor continued to tug them both forward. Caught between both needy and rough pairs of hands, Dorian found himself stripped down to nothing.

                He rationalized that he should have been terrified; given the volatile nature of men who surrounded him. They were not that different from Hans, eager to conquer and possess. But there was a blunt difference that staid at the forefront of his mind, banishing his fears. This was his choice.

                He felt Victor pull back and Timmy slid to take his place in front, kissing and touching Dorian with the same enthusiasm he had always shown towards the smaller man. Timmy pulled him down so that the smaller man was straddling his longer frame, and Dorian gasped slightly when he realized they were both completely exposed, skin to skin.

                Timmy grinned, licking and biting his neck, holding his new packmate with one hand while the other teased along the inside of his thighs. In turn he found himself grinding against his partner, enticed by feeling how warm and hard he was and the prospect of what it would feel like to have Timmy inside him.

                 His eyes moved over Timmy’s shoulder to where Creed was, watching them with those liquid gold eyes, poised to pounce but holding back. Dorian could see that he was naked now too, and just the sight of him that way made him moan again.

                “Victor, I want him…” Timmy groaned, rubbing himself against Dorian anxiously as he looked back at his Alpha. “Please, let me break him in first…”

                Creed growled low in his throat and Timmy whimpered, changing position and yielding as Creed moved towards them and again kissed Timmy roughly, grabbing him roughly by the chin as he devoured his mouth. Dorian shivered watching them and unconsciously ground against Timmy again, becoming more anxious than he realized.

                The larger man unseated him, tugging both smaller men towards him as they fell across the grass matt upon the floor. Timmy fell into position easily, always eager to please his Alpha. Victor’s claws scratched down his back, leaving long red lines that seeped little ruby pearls. Timmy mewled, but seemed to relish the sting of it, grinding hard against Victor’s hips, already throbbing and fully erect.

                His hand circled Victor’s own erect cock, and Dorian watched for a moment before curling his hand over his, fingers lacing together. Creed purred in approval, kissing Dorian again.

                Just as he was getting used to the rhythm, lulled into a sort of hypnotic trance by the motion and the heat, he felt Timmy pull away, moving down to crouch between Victor’s thick muscular thighs. Victor chuckled as his beta licked and sucked him without restraint, making Dorian gasp at how easily he was able to handle Creed’s girth.

                Victor moved the smaller man closer, positioning him so that he could watch Timmy and nothing else, while Creed worked his mouth along his neck, shoulders and back, hand teasing him between his legs. Despite the fact that Dorian could not maintain an erection, it still felt good to be touched and fondled there, and he felt himself give a little throb of excitement against Creed’s palm.

                “Watch and learn sweetheart.”

                Dorian moaned again, the constant teasing clouding his mind. He couldn’t believe how much he wanted to be fucked by the two men that surrounded him; he never thought he’d be able to look at sex, at intimacy as something desirable. All he had ever known was pain and fear at Hans’s callous hands. But it wasn’t going to be that way; not any more.

                Victor’s teeth scraped his shoulder and he shivered. “Getting antsy are ya?” he purred.

                Dorian moaned and leaned back to kiss him. Creed allowed it for a moment then pulled the smaller man back and turned his face back towards Timmy, “Your turn.”

                Dorian trembled but nodded, and moved down between the Alpha’s thighs. Timmy kissed him and moved back, positioning himself behind Dorian to help position him as he got on his hands and knees, moving his mouth over Creed.

                Victor groaned, raking his fingers through Dorian’s black hair again and twisting it lightly in his fingers to maintain hold, hips rocking up into the smaller man, forcing himself deep into his mouth. Dorian took it easily, undaunted by the thrusting or how large he was. He only moaned faintly as he felt the man push against the back of his throat.

                “Oh Fuck…!” Victor shivered.

                Timmy was grinding against him, rubbing his palms and fingers along the backs of Dorian’s thighs and across his ass, making the smaller man gasp and pant with sensitivity. His fingers worked inward, spreading him, first one, then two.

                Dorian cried out, feeling another hot throb between his legs, forced to let go of Creed for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at Timmy.

                “Feel good?”

                “Yes!” he nodded. “Oh God yes…”

                Victor pulled his head back around, forcing him to return to his task, and he did so with more eagerness than before, feeling Timmy probe deeper, fingers stretching him and stroking that sensitive bundle of nerves inside him that made his knees go weak and his stomach hot.

                Creed was going to finish soon, he could feel the man throbbing and pulsing against his tongue. He sucked him hard, taking him in still deeper, though it should have gagged him. But he was used to being fucked this way. At least Creed let him breathe and didn’t treat him like a toy.

                He felt Timmy position himself again him, slick and hot. Dorian shivered, trying to brace. He felt the smaller feral push forward, steady and insistent, forcing his muscles to give further. Dorian winced faintly at the force, but was immediately distracted by the feeling of Creed pushing his head down and spilling down his throat.

                Dorian gulped quickly, swallowing it all, before Creed pulled him back, causing him to gasp sharply, before he shouted as Timmy thrust forward hard and fast. Victor sat back, face flushed faintly from orgasm and watched them both as Timmy bent over the smaller man, nipping and biting his skin.

                Timmy was far less thick than Creed or McCoy, and so the penetration wasn’t nearly as painful to endure, and the burning sensation that usually accompanied it faded quickly. Dorian panted heavily, head down, forced on his elbows as he lifted his hips.

                He felt hot and dizzy, his thighs twitching as he felt himself getting closer to his own climax. His hand fumbled, reaching back to grab Timmy’s hand and squeeze it. The smaller feral eased back, pausing in his movements and pulled Dorian up, letting him rest in his lap, head falling back against his chest and shoulder. “You alright?” he panted, smoothing his hand lightly across Dorian’s heaving chest, trying to calm him.

                Dorian nodded breathlessly, nuzzling him.

                “Maybe yer too much for ‘im,” Victor chuckled, moving forward again, momentarily pinning Dorian between himself and Timmy. But Dorian shook his head fervently and tugged Victor closer, kissing him eagerly, much to the Alpha’s pleasant surprise.

                “No, please, don’t stop,” Dorian moaned. “Don’t stop!”

                Creed grinned and leaned over to nip sharply at his neck, leaving a bright red love bite on the pale skin. He reached between Dorian’s thighs and squeezed him hard, possessively, causing his achingly full cock to leak faintly. “Don’t get greedy, Copy-Cat.” Creed replied, looking in the eye. “You’ve got to wait yer turn. Ya don’t cum unless I want you to. Understand?”

                The smaller man nodded, whimpering as Creed gave him another squeeze but withdrew before he could derive any release from it.

                Sabretooth grinned and turned his attentions now to Timmy. The two stared at each other for a moment, Creed predatory and lustful and Timmy giddy and eager. Dorian was pulled from Timmy’s lap and nudged aside as Victor leaned in and bit his beta ferociously on the shoulder, making the smaller man shout as he drew blood.

                Dorian’s eyes widened, for a moment terrified. But Timmy seemed to relish the pain, wrapping his arms around the blonde’s thick shoulders and pulling him in closer. “Ahh! Victor! Hhnnn!”

                “Are you mine?”

                “YES!” Timmy was so exuberant in his response that it sent another thrill through Dorian, and any fears he had were lulled, watching Creed lick his lover’s wounds before pushing him back, flat on his stomach, legs hooked over Victor’s arm as the man above him stroked him hard and fast. Timmy twisted and cried out, scratching his hands above his head, loving the roughness of it.

                “Oh my God…” Dorian muttered, watching, aching and hungry, almost wishing he could trade places with the other man. Victor seemed to know it too, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

                “Victor! Victor please! I want to—“

                Creed gripped him harder making Timmy nearly scream as the man dragged his claws lightly down his chest and stomach, leaving more long red lines. “Not yet.”

                Timmy whimpered loudly, lifting his hips against Creed’s hands.

                The Alpha turned his eyes on Dorian then. “Come ‘er.” He beckoned again.

                He went without hesitation, allowing the larger male to guide his movements. He pushed Dorian onto his knees, straddling Timmy’s twitching thighs, but didn’t allow his Beta to penetrate him again, much to their anguish.

                Dorian felt Creed move behind him, pushing him forward slightly and positioning himself against him, now that Dorian was still sufficiently stretched and slick. The black haired man quivered, looking down at Timmy, who lay panting beneath him, flushed and scratched, covered in sweat.

                Creed’s hand took a firm hold on his hip, while the other curled lightly around his throat, feeling the wild beating on his pulse there. “And you? Are you mine, Dorian?”

                “Yes…”

                He felt Creed’s teeth graze across his shoulder, and his eyes turned instinctively towards the same place on Timmy’s body, where the scar shaped like a ring of teeth remained. Creed shoved himself inside him, fast and hard. Dorian shouted, grabbing Timmy’s side for support. The man below him sat up, taking Dorian’s face between his hands.

                “S’okay…” he promised. “Promise…s’okay.”

                Victor pulled back and slammed into him again, deeper this time and Dorian howled, caught between the pain and the intense burst of pleasure that it sent through him. He whimpered as Creed pulled him down again, before leaning in and sinking his teeth deep into the place between his neck and shoulder.

                Dorian’s eyes widened and he screamed, feeling blood drip from the wound. Rasping for breath, Timmy leaned in and kissed him, keeping his face between his hands as Victor retracted, licking the wound and taking up a steadier rhythm as he drove himself in and out of Dorian’s body.

                The smaller man could barely breathe; the pain was already dull now in comparison to the sensation of being filled so completely and fucked relentlessly, his nerves seeming to spark from the constant sensation.

                The trio shifted, allowing Timmy to climb out from under them as Dorian was more thoroughly seated on Victor’s hips, his arms pulled back behind him and pinned there by Creed as he sheathed the man fully on his cock over and over again.

                Creed groaned, loving the way the smaller man felt, how tight and hot he was. He was ready to cum again, anxious in fact. He wanted his conquest to be complete, to know that after this Dorian would be his.

                He drove the man down harder, faster and felt him twitch and clench on top of him before he contorted and screamed from somewhere deep in his throat. Victor saw Timmy smile as he watched him, and Creed felt the man splatter against his thigh.

                He didn’t stop, of course, even though Dorian was rasping sharply and almost painfully, almost struggling. He didn’t let up until he felt that dizzying sensation of orgasm ripple through him again and he coated the clone’s insides with it.

                Only once the last tremor between his thighs calmed did he release the man’s arms and push him forward to dislodge him. Dorian slumped into Timmy’s waiting embrace, limp and shaking, covered in sweat, blood still seeping from his wound.

                Creed watched them both for a moment, admiring the way the two smaller men fit together. It was such an odd sight, considering the relationship between their counterparts. And never in a million years did Victor think he would find himself creating a pack like this…but now that it was here in front of him, he knew he’d do anything to keep it that way.

                He loomed over them both for a moment, enjoying the view, then pulled them both in, kissing and nuzzling each. “Alright there, Copy-Cat?” he asked.

                Dorian nodded mutely, his eyes hooded and glazed. It was clear he was spent. Creed kissed him again and nudged him from Timmy’s embrace, easing him to the floor. “Ya did good.” He assured him.

                The man on the floor nodded faintly, wincing at the pain it caused. The air was thick with the smell of blood, sweat and sex. And Creed, even though he had just finished less than ten minutes ago, was already hard and eager again; always insatiable.

                He turned his gaze fully to Timmy then, grabbing him up fully and kissing him heatedly. Dorian watched as the Alpha laid his Beta back on the ground, quickly pushing between his legs and driving inside him. Timmy shouted and arched, Creed’s arms around him, mouth at his neck.

                Dorian gawked at the way Timmy seemed to not only be able to handle such violent penetration, but seemed to relish it. It would have been terrifying if both mates didn’t look so euphoric. Dorian didn’t know if he would ever be up to their level, but neither seemed to really mind. They had each other, and already he knew that whatever place he held among them, it couldn’t replace the bond they had formed.

                Timmy had been kept on edge for so long, it was a wonder that he was able to hold out as long as he did. Creed was slamming into him so hard and fast that neither could do anything but rasp for air and cling to each other. It went on that way for several long minutes, and Dorian thought he heard Victor growl something in the brunette’s ear before Timmy screamed and arched again, legs shaking violently as he finally finished between them.

                He went limp almost immediately afterwards, and Dorian could hear him sniffing. The smaller man drew himself up with some effort and moved worriedly towards them. Timmy’s face was hot red and tears leaking from his eyes but he was also smiling, combing his fingers through Victor’s thick hair as he sobbed, trying to catch his breath.

                Creed cooed and nuzzled him, and Dorian clung that soft moment between them. It was something he’d seen in Victor before, and to see it again made him sure he’d chosen wisely. He moved to lie next to them, and Creed laid down between them, tucking one under each arm.

                “Holy shit…I needed that.” The feral laughed.

                Dorian smiled weakly, laying his head on the man’s broad chest. He was exhausted and his wound ached. He wanted to sleep. He cast his tired gaze towards Timmy, assuming the other man would be in similar ruined condition. But Timmy seemed to already be recovering, looking over at him with a smile on his face.

                “Don’t worry, de pain goes away fast.” He looked down at his chest, which had been covered in claw marks a few moments ago. But already the thin wounds had closed, and they looked faded and healed.

                Dorian blinked.

                Victor rubbed his hand across Timmy’s back. “Go get us a drink, shrimp. Sure Copy-Cat could use one.” He chuckled again and craned his neck to kiss the man’s forehead. “That’ll take the edge off.”

                Dorian nodded. It didn’t really matter…he was going to pass out soon anyway.

                Timmy returned from deeper within the den and brought with him a bottle of whiskey that was already half empty. As he settled down beside his lovers again, Victor seemed to get a better look at him and his brow furrowed. He brushed his hand down Timmy’s chest.

                “What the hell…?”

                The brunette looked down at himself, unsure what the confusion was about. “What is it?”

                “You were bleeding. Now yer…turn around.”

                Timmy did so at once, and Victor sat up, looking carefully at his back. Like the wounds on his chest, they were already faded and closing, leaving pale lines to show where they had been.

                “Kitty? What is it?”

                “Damn…” Victor mumbled. Timmy turned back towards him, looking confused. “You just keep coming up with new surprises don’t ya?”

                His beta blinked at him vaguely, and then shrugged. “If you say so.”

                He curled down next to him again. “I’m tired. We go to sleep now?”

                “Yeah, shrimp. Go to sleep.”

 

**

 

                Timmy stirred from his curled position next to Creed’s naked body. Everything was warm, dark and close. Outside the cave he could hear birds chirping faintly. It wasn’t morning yet. He curled closer to Creed, nuzzling his warm naked skin and fumbled to find his other partner. But Dorian wasn’t there. Timmy lifted his head and saw the silhouette of the man standing just beyond the opening, dressing himself in the dim light.

                It seemed to be a slow, clumsy process and Timmy thought he heard the man curse a few times. He crawled away from his Alpha, sneaking up almost silently behind the smaller man. “Where you goin’?” he asked quietly.

                Dorian gasped and turned sharply, clutching his chest. “Timothy! You startled me!”

                “Sorry,” the other replied, sincere but playful at once. “Sore today?”

                Dorian nodded, finishing pulling on his ruffled shirt, dusting dirt and grass from it and grimacing at the unclean feel of it. “Very much so…but it’s a good kind of ache.” He smiled at the other man and beckoned him closer, leaning up to kiss him. “Did I do alright?”

                “Perfect,” Timmy replied, nipping his nose. He paused, glancing back at Victor and his smile dimmed. “Don’t know when it’ll be like dis again…Sinister has to come back sooner or later I guess. Then they’ll take him away again.”

                Dorian frowned, knowing that was indeed the truth. They both looked nervously at their Alpha, fearing for him, and their future. Timmy chewed his lip and looked towards the sky, seeing the dome faintly above him through the artificial sky that Essex had created. A glimpse of the real world beyond the simulation. “Victor says we have to get out. But I don’t know…I don’t know how to help.”

                The dark-haired man hugged him closely to console him, then paused, blinking. “I think I do.”

                His partner raised his brow in confusion, but before he could ask, Dorian was shushing him, looking back at Creed. “Shh! Let me think…we mustn’t discuss it here.”

                He took Timmy’s hand and pulled him out of the cave, starting up the hill with him.

                “Where are we going?”

                “The Simulation Room.”

                Timmy tensed, digging his heels into the dirt and pulling Dorian to a stop. “What? No I…” he looked nervous. “I’ve never been dat far away from de Sanctuary before. What if they see me?”

                “I’ll be with you.” Dorian assured. “And we both know you’re excellent at making yourself invisible when you wish.”

                This encouraged his partner and he regained his grasp on the other man’s hand as they exited the enclosure and started out into the dark of the Sanctuary, heading towards the elevator.

                “What happens when we get there?” Timmy asked.

                Dorian squared his shoulders and set his jaw. “We destroy it.”

                “How?”

                “I don’t know yet.” He admitted. “But I’ll think of something.”

                “Better think quick.”

                The elevator came to a stop on the ground floor and both men held their breath, unsure if anyone would be waiting on the other side. Luckily, the threshold was empty and dark at this early hour, and Dorian hurriedly pulled Timmy through, making his way towards the outer door which lead to the walkway beyond.

                Their footfalls echoed on the cold floor as they crossed over into the old part of the manner house, the place that housed most of Sinister’s experiments. Timmy hated it here. His palm began to sweat in Dorian’s gloved grasp, but the other man didn’t let him go.

                Ahead of them, he saw a shadow moving, emerging from a door that obstructed by a corner. Timmy grabbed Dorian hard and pushed him into the closet room, the two of them dropping down to the floor, holding their breath.

                The heavy footstep that followed was unmistakably McCoy’s, and both clones felt their hearts racing, knowing that with even a cement wall between them, the feral could most certainly smell them. Timmy bared his teeth, ready to fight if need be. Dorian pressed his hand hard against the man’s bare chest in an effort to still him.

                McCoy’s shadow crept by without pause, and the heard the man muttering to himself under his breath. Hesitantly, Dorian peered out the tiny slit between the door and its frame, watching as the man shuffled out of sight. He was distracted, that much Dorian gathered. But he wouldn’t be for long. And if they were to have any real success in destroying the Simulator and thus putting an end to Victor’s training, Hans had to be removed.

                Timmy’s red and black eyes were narrowed, his body tense and coiled like a spring. He was thinking the same thing Dorian was of course. His packmate turned his gaze to him as he began to crawl forward, ready to take the large feral by surprise.

                “Timmy, no!” Dorian whispered. “You can’t handle that creature on your own.”

                “Watch me try,” the redhead muttered, “might kill me, but I’ll take out his eyes before he does.”

                “No, no…even if you did manage to hurt him, he would just heal. We just need something that will keep him down for awhile…” He thought hard for a moment, then slowly stood up, chancing the door and moving in the opposite direction down the hall, Timmy in tow.

                He wasn’t sure where he kept it exactly, but he knew it there had to be more than one. They rushed silently passed doorways, peering inside, trying to discern which of these might hold the key to their mission. Timmy kept his ears open, listening, watching. So far, they remained unnoticed.

                Finally, Dorian pushed his way into another door. It was a supply closet, filled with medicinal supplies and tools, all things both Essex and McCoy used on their victims. Timmy kept watch at the door as Dorian hurriedly riffled though boxes and containers.

                “What are you lookin’ for?” Timmy muttered nervously. He could hear more movement down the hall; Hans was coming back.

                Dorian didn’t answer, but his movements were frantic. “It’s here, it has to be here—ah!” He had to stand on his toes to reach the high cabinet above the top shelf, and when he found it was locked, he yanked the handle hard until it popped free.  The noise made them both tense and Timmy looked out the door again. The footsteps were getting closer.

                Dorian grabbed the contents of the cabinet, which Timmy could now see was a small pistol of some kind. But rather than a chamber for bullets, the gun had a space which was filled with a liquid container, and the barrel had several large holes. One of McCoy’s dart guns.

                With shaking fingers, the man in the rumpled suit loaded it fully, knowing that he would get only one chance at this, and if he missed even a single shot, it might cost them both their lives.

                “He’s coming!”

                Hans’ shadow was just outside the door once more, and this time it paused there for a moment or two before reaching for the handle and pulling it wide.

                The pair of clones saw his face for only a second before they both attacked, Dorian shouting and firing off three darts in quick succession, only three more left in the barrel. Two hit Hans in the chest and made him roar, the other bounced off his shoulder and fell useless to the floor.

                McCoy bellowed and tore the offending needles from his chest and looked at them both murderously. But Timmy was on him, climbing up the shelving so that he could swing out and kick the larger Mutant squarely in the face. Hans was knocked to the side, crashing into another shelf, shaking blood from his nose.

                He made a wide swipe for them, going after Dorian, who was still trying to take another shot.

                “YOU LITTLE--!”

                Timmy fell on his back, biting and clawing. He tore at one of McCoy’s cat like ears, shredding it. Dark Beast reached back and grabbed him by the neck, hurling the smaller creature off him. Timmy went rolling out onto the hallway floor.

                Hans turned to bound after him, clawed hand raised to rake across the downed man’s skin, but Dorian shot him again, this time in the neck. He snarled, but already the sedatives, which were already strong enough to put down any Mutant, even those who regenerative abilities, was taking affect.

                Foaming and dazed, McCoy tried to catch Grey as he made to escape. He succeeded only in being shot one last time, in the thigh.

                Dorian fumbled away from him, falling on his back in an effort to evade the drugged creature’s flailing grasp. Hans grabbed hold of his leg and he cried out, but nothing else happened. The feline Mutant gurgled something and then went face down on the floor, unmoving.

                For a moment, none of them moved. Then Timmy scrambled up and moved to Dorian’s side. “You alright!?”

                “Fine!” Dorian rasped, clinging to his arm as the taller man helped him to his feet, kicking away Hans’s limp hand. “I’m fine…”

                He took a few deep breaths to collect himself, then nudged McCoy’s head with the toe of his shoe. He didn’t respond. Dorian wasn’t even sure he was still actually breathing.

                “Let’s get him in the closet.” He said then, and Timmy didn’t question it. It took both of them to drag the heavily muscled scientist into the ruined closet, where the tossed him haplessly before closing and locking the door behind them.

                The pair stood there panting for a moment. The red and black eyed man glanced down at the now empty dart gun in his packmate’s hand. “You sure good wit dat.”

                Dorian laughed, though there were tears in his eyes. Adrenaline was still rushing through him, making him feel giddy and shaky and increasingly tired as the shock began to wear off. He grabbed Timmy’s hand and they took off running down the hall again, refusing to look back.

                After a few more twists and turns through the labyrinth like halls of the mansion’s research facilities, they found themselves standing at the threshold of the Simulator. It was not as difficult as they supposed to get inside the observation deck—apparently both McCoy and Essex were just that confident; supposing no one would be brazen enough to attempt something as foolish as this.

                Obviously, they never accounted for desperation.

                As they stepped inside the cavernous room, Timmy felt a little shiver go through him. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly that made him so apprehensive of the empty space below. But he sensed that terrible things had happened here, and would continue to if they couldn’t destroy it.

                Dorian seemed to know where he was going. Through a small door they slipped, finding themselves once more in close quarters. It was dark inside, and the only lights were those coming from the dozens and dozens of illuminated keys across an expansive control panel. Above them wide windows looked down on the room below, though there were two separate screens on either side of the main panel as well.

                To Timmy it looked utterly alien, he had never seen something with so many buttons and gadgets. Dorian sat down in the chair in front of the panel and looked around slowly, studying the varying levers and keyboards.

                “What now? We…we smash it?”

                “Yes. But…” he glanced around and finally came across what he had been searching for; a small flash drive, which he quickly ejected and tucked away into his shirt pocket. “This way they won’t simply be able to reboot it.” He nodded.

                Timmy stared at him blankly and Dorian shrugged it off. “I’ll leave this to you, darling. Tear it to pieces.”

                The taller mutant cracked his knuckles and then slammed a fist down on the buttons. They crunched under his hand and he grunted, raising his fist and repeating the action, over and over until the cover board itself cracked. Timmy started tearing it away, piece by piece, seeing the wiring and circuit boards beneath, which he started tearing out with his bare hands, despite the fact that it shocked him.

                Dorian watched, a thrill going through his chest and stomach as he did. This was it; there was no going back now. This transgression would not go unpunished. And Hans would know of course. What mattered now was that Sinister didn’t.

                He stepped back out the door, allowing Timmy to continue his destruction. He needed to get Hans into the Simulator before he regained consciousness, make it appear as though Hans had destroyed the machine himself…

                His plan was flawed. And the more he thought about it the more it unraveled in front of him. And he realized that even with Victor’s protection he was not safe…

                He started to turn back to the door, to tell Timmy to stop.

                A hand closed over his throat and pushed him back hard against the wall. Dorian opened his mouth and let out a loud, pained rasp, but couldn’t speak, the grip on his throat was so tight.

                “Keep yer mouth shut,” Scalphunter hissed at him.

                Dorian blinked, more confused and startled than ever, but managed to nod faintly. The fierce grip on his throat laxed and he took in a gulp of air, John’s face leering hard into his. “I came in here expecting to find Creed…instead I find you. Heh.”

                Timmy appeared in the doorway and looked ready to pounce once he saw that Dorian was in trouble, but before he could make a move, John raised his arm and shot something at him. Timmy hissed as a small, pin-like dart hit him in the chest. He groaned and slid down the door frame, twitching faintly.

                “Don’t! Don’t hurt him!”

                John held him still, looking at him closely. “Relax.” He ordered. “He’s fine. Just paralyzed. For the moment.”

                He pulled back slightly, eyeing Dorian and then glancing further into the open room, where he could see some of the damage that had been done. “I never woulda pegged you for the reckless type. Especially knowing what it is McCoy does to ya on a regular basis. I’m starting to think there’s something in the air down here…makes people do stupid things. Things that will get them killed.”

                He looked down at the open room below him with a scowl. “For the life of me, I can’t see what it matters to _you_ if this place goes up in pieces. But I, for one, wouldn’t be sorry to see it go.”

                Greycrow looked back at Dorian again, who was still staring, wide eyed but also perplexed. “I came across yer handy work on the way here. I have to admit I’m impressed, two frail little things like you. But yer sloppy.”

                He reached into the deep inner pocket of his jacket and produced a small leather bound journal that looked well worn. “Just smashing the controls won’t buy you much time. But if you destroy _this_ …well, it’ll take him a little longer to try to do it all by memory.”

                Hesitantly, the paler man took the book from the mercenary’s grasp. “Why are you helping us?”

                Greycrow shrugged. “Maybe I’ll come around some day lookin’ for a favor. Maybe I just want to stick it to that big blue freak. Either way, it’s not your concern.”  He backed off then, moving back along the catwalk towards the door.

                “But…what about McCoy? He’ll know it was us.”

                “So what?” John shrugged. “He won’t be able to prove it.”

                “W-what do you mean?”

                “I’ll take care of McCoy. You take care of that book.”

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

 

                Less than eight hours later, a new disturbance brought the worker clones from their droning existence, and sent a faint spark of excitement through the otherwise dulled and languishing forces of Nathaniel Essex.

                Sinister appeared from the main lift, looking composed and triumphant, an ominous black and heavy briefcase clutched in his gloved hand as he strode into the foyer of his grand house.

                His servants scattered at his approach, each trying to make sure that everything was to their master’s liking, or to offer him assistance.

                “I trust your excursion went well, sir?” one of his personal assistants, marked as such by his ornate jacket and short, cropped hair.

                “Exceedingly so,” Sinister asked as he allowed the clone to help him slide out of his overcoat. “Though I admit, it has been some time since I had to dirty my hands in such a manner…but it will all be worth it, should my theories prove correct.”

                “Excellent, sir.”

                “I trust that everything here has gone well. Nothing to report?”

                “Nothing of note, Doctor Essex.”

                “Very good. Where is Dr. McCoy? I need to speak with him immediately.”

                Here the workers paused and glanced from one to another. “I apologize, sir. No one has seen Dr. McCoy this morning.”

                Sinister raised his brows thoughtfully. “He hasn’t left the compound I trust?”

                “No, sir. No one in or out.”

                “Then I imagine he’s in his lab somewhere.” Essex sighed, now ascending the grand staircase to the upper level of the house, eager to change and take a long shower. He still felt soiled from his venture, and wanted desperately to wash off the foul stink of grave dirt off himself.

                “Shall we fetch him for you?”

                “Nevermind,” Sinister muttered, waving them off. He focused his thoughts, reaching out for Hans’ mind amidst the hum and drone of the dozens of others that dwelled within the compound.

                _“Hans? Where are you? I’ve good news. Won’t you come and help me celebrate?”_

                His mind finally found McCoy’s, only to find it…dull…unresponsive.

                Sinister’s brow furrowed and he paused, expanding his telepathic reach. He could see McCoy now, slumped over the broken panels of the observation deck.

                Essex withdrew his influence, stiffened and sneered. He turned abruptly on heel and marched his way down the corridor towards the Simulation Room, his confusion and anger growing with every harrowed step.

                Upon reaching the room, he flung the doors wide and strode out onto the cat walk. Looking down, he could see pieces of machinery littering the floor, and the glass of the windows had been broken.

                He reached the door and peered inside. Hans was there, mumbling and drooling.

                Sinister boiled and glared hard at him, the red diamond upon his head flashing with the intensity of his power.

                McCoy jolted awake with a groan and a yelp, falling from his chair and landing hard on his back with a moan. He coughed and sputtered, trying to right himself, only to turn and find his partner glaring down at him.

                “What. Is. This?” Sinister hissed.

                For a moment his blood shot eyes stared at him without comprehending his words, but slowly the room came into focus, and he could see the damage.

                “What…what in hell--?”

                “My thoughts exactly!” the smaller man quipped. He moved past Hans to look further at the damage, and the more he studied it, the more angry he became. “Can I not trust you to maintain order in my absence?” he muttered.

                Hans pulled himself up, looking haggard and vexed. “You can’t possibly believe _I’m_ to blame for this.”

                “I’ve seen you destroy your work before in fits of temper…but this is a bit different. It took _months_ to build this machine, the calibrations _alone_ …!” he sighed angrily and rubbed his temple. “It doesn’t matter. _Fix it.”_

                McCoy growled low at him. “Of course, darling. Right after I find who did this…and tear their heads off.”

                “And who is it you suspect?” Sinister hissed at him. “Creed, I suppose.”

                Hans opened his mouth to argue, but then hesitated, his pink tongue flicking across his leathery lips. “No. I don’t believe so.”

                “Then whom?” Essex muttered. “One of the Marauders? Ha! There isn’t enough collective backbone between the lot of them to _dare_ something like this.” Essex leaned closer to McCoy, pulling him in by his collar. His nose crinkled a moment later and he leaned away. “You smell like the bottom of a wine barrel…whether you committed the act or not, I’m holding you accountable.”

                McCoy started to growl, to show his teeth. This was a side of Sinister he loathed, a side he recognized from another time and another place. But he held himself back, regaining control.

                “You’re right, Nathaniel. I’ll see that it’s taken care of immediately.”

                “You had better.”

                Essex stepped out with another word.

 

**

 

                Back in the enclosure, Victor was finally starting to come back to the waking, living world. He had slept for almost fourteen hours, and it appeared that he had needed it desperately. For the first time since his conditioning had begun, Victor felt like himself again, his head clear and unclouded by Sinister’s constant battering.

                Beside him, curled close together on the mat, were Dorian and Timmy. Victor blinked, noticing that the smaller male had redressed himself—save for his jacket and the shoes—and Timmy was wrapped in a blanket as though he had been cold.

                In fact, as Creed glanced around, he realized the den was no longer as barren was he was used to. There was a crate of supplies; water, packaged food, toiletries and first-aid items, as well as bundle of blankets and a thick foam mat that was rolled and bundled tight, all of it resting in the back corner of the cave.

                “The hell is this?” Creed muttered. He looked down again at his packmates, sensing that he’d missed out on something.

                Dorian stirred at the sound of his voice and looked up at him tiredly and then smiled. “Oh, you’re up!” he mumbled, sitting up stiffly and reaching for the bigger man. Victor was surprised when the clone wrapped his arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Feeling rested?”

                Victor sniffed him and noted he smelled stranger than before, though how and why exactly he couldn’t place. “Suppose so.” He grunted. He tugged back his collar and looked at the angry wound on Dorian’s shoulder, which he had cleaned and bandaged. “How’s it feel?”

                “It aches a bit—“

                “No, dummy,” Creed cut in, “I mean knowing yer one of us now.”

                Dorian paused for a moment, thinking of all that had transpired to bring him here to this odd state, allied with creatures he never could have imagined just a short time ago. He smirked. “It feels…good.”

                Victor grinned, liking the faint wicked twinkle he saw in his eye. “Good. Cause I got a feelin’ we’re going places, Copy Cat. Big places. Better places.” He looked towards the den opening and sighed. “If we ever get out of this hell hole.”

                Dorian kissed him. “Patience,” he offered. “I feel as though things are beginning to shift. For good or ill, I can’t decide. But I know I am better off now than before, and would face whatever comes with no one else.”

                Victor nipped him. “Sappy speeches are cute and all,” he replied. “but it’s what you do when shit gets real that I’m interested in.”

                “Don’t worry. I will play my part, and you will play yours. That, I believe, we can both be sure of.”

 

Fini


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